


Say My Name

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Loud Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3347795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John Watson, my dear partner, faithful friend, eternal confidante, and enthusiastic lover, is the quietest man in bed I have ever known.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say My Name

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "say my name" at the [Come At Once](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com) challenge on LiveJournal. No beta!!!

The occupants of 221B Baker Street have been blessed with having as their landlady the most patient, the most gentle, the most unobtrusive, and yet the most nurturing and concerned woman that one can conceive of in the person of Mrs Hudson. They are also blessed with hearty meals, warm fires, and a tolerance for late-night disturbances. But, not the sort perhaps the reader imagines. Doctor Watson and I have a habit of demanding cabs at a quarter to midnight to attend the summons of Scotland Yard. The other variety of nocturnal goings-on is not, I believe, any concern of Mrs Hudson's. Not for a lack of trying on my part.

John Watson, my dear partner, faithful friend, eternal confidante, and enthusiastic lover, is the quietest man in bed I have ever known. He is also, despite his time as a doctor and in the military, enchantingly shy about articulating his desires. This is not because he isn't _familiar_ with the notion— not with a reputation like his— but because I am the first man he has ever slept with, and he has never had someone demanding he tell them what he wants in no uncertain terms. With women there is a sort of unspoken negotiation that goes on when a gentleman is courting: gloves here, handkerchiefs there, ankles crossed and uncrossed. I know perfectly well the language of romance. But that doesn't mean I care to engage in it myself.

Every year our Mrs Hudson leaves us to our own devices for one week while she sojourns with her sister to the coast. We barely survive on sandwiches and over-steeped tea, but this year there was new significance to having the house to ourselves. She hadn't been gone an hour before Watson lowered his newspaper and cleared his throat.

I was on alert at once, but I stayed stone-still, bent over my desk with my eyes on my experiment.

"I say, Holmes," Watson began, in that cheeriest of voices he adopts for the most difficult conversations. To think it used to be the start of a demand that I clean up the sitting room, and was now being used to proposition me. Rapture.

"Yes, my dear?"

"I say," he said again, and there was the rustling of his paper as he folded it up. "I don't suppose you'd… that is, I was thinking I might…"

I waited, heart hammering, feigning indifference.

"I was thinking perhaps we could… retire."

"It's a bit early for that," said I, glancing at him. God, he was glorious: blushing and fidgeting and already a little aroused. Just by the prospect. "You've barely had time to make my name famous."

"Holmes."

"Hmm?" I was innocence personified. "Oh, you meant to bed. Why, my dear boy, it's hardly half-past three."

Watson threw down his paper and glared across the room at me. His cheeks were pink with embarrassment. "Damn it, Holmes, don't be so infuriating!"

I shouldn't tease him. I know that. But I love it when he gets worked up and frustrated with me, particularly in these sorts of situations. He stammers and curses and forces the words out through his teeth, and it thrills me indecently to hear them from his mouth. I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Such language, Doctor."

"You only call me that when you're being impertinent," Watson grumbled. "Holmes, _really_. We have the house to ourselves, you haven't got anything important on— oh hush, that's your alkynes experiment, I'm not an idiot— you look unbelievably handsome in that bloody dressing gown, and I just want to— to—" His voice began to falter and I watched him, rapt. "I want to… make… love with you," he said finally, almost in a whisper.

"Oh, my dear fellow," I sighed, abandoning the alkynes at my desk. I'd worn this dressing gown on purpose: he does so love the moss green. In a few steps I was at his side. He was sitting on the settee rather than in his armchair. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Damn you," he muttered, reaching up to put a hand on my waist. I decided to do him one better, and climbed into his lap. His only reaction was a sharp intake of breath through the nose, and his hands slid underneath my dressing gown to embrace me. I wanted more than that.

I looped my arms around his neck and put my forehead against his. "We have a week," I said, touching our noses together. I stroked his shoulders. "I think we ought to put it to good use."

"Mmm," Watson agreed, and I kissed him softly. "Bedroom?" he asked against my mouth.

"Absolutely not," I said. "I'm going to have you right here."

"Here?" Watson squeaked.

"And over the breakfast table, and on the hearthrug, and in the bath, if you're amenable."

Watson's eyes were wide, deep and dark. He licked his lips, cleared his throat, and then whispered, "Yes, I think I'm amenable."

"Excellent," said I, carding my fingers through his hair and tipping his chin up so that I could touch my lips to his. I lingered this time, kissing him slowly and deeply. I could feel his heartbeat against my sternum and I caught his sigh on my tongue. His hands were strong and proprietary upon my backside. He never hesitated in his caresses, only in the verbal articulation. And he, a writer. It was a shame: I needed to rectify it.

I transferred my kisses to the angle of his jaw, feeling the faintest rasp of hair under my lips. I placed a kiss below his ear and nibbled at his throat, as he untucked my shirt from my trousers. I wasn't wearing a waistcoat, so his hands slipped easily up the newly-bared length of my spine. His breathing was deep and appreciative, but controlled. I bit him just above his collar and made him yelp.

"That's it," I said, soothing the nip with my tongue. "I want to hear you. All week, I want you shouting my name."

Watson snorted, his laugh half derision and half embarrassment. "I'm not sure I have the stamina to be doing that _all week_ ," he murmured.

"I'll take what I can get." I turned my attention to the other side of his neck and let go of his hair to unfasten his collar. In turn, he began to unbutton my shirt. We pulled apart for a moment to undress one another from neck to navel, and I took the opportunity to settle myself a little lower against his lap. My trousers were taut with my knees spread so wide, but I could feel the ridge of his cock trapped against his thigh. He made a little hoarse noise in the back of his throat when I rubbed against it.

I shook my dressing gown and shirt off my arms and they landed in a heap on the rug behind me. Watson was not so easily disrobed, but I left his waistcoat and shirt unfastened and stroked my hands down his chest, scratching lightly in the hair that grew there and passing my littlest fingers over his tightening nipples. He shifted his hands to my hips, thumbs stroking my abdomen above my hipbones.

We kissed again, his tongue flickering out to touch mine and draw it back into his warm, tobacco-sweet mouth. I moaned aloud, licking in. To my surprise, and perhaps his own, he echoed me. I made another sound, pleased, and he answered me again. My prick throbbed.

I pulled away to admire his dishevelment and looked into his eyes as I said, "I want you in my mouth."

"Oh," said he, his cock twitching against my backside, "yes, all right."

I climbed off. It was a regrettable but necessary action. I went to my knees between his feet, opened his trousers, and untied his drawers. He lifted his hips obligingly when I pulled and they joined my shirt and dressing gown behind me. Just in his shirt and socks, he couldn't have been more charming. I kissed his knee, running my hands up his thighs, ruffling the fine, golden hair the wrong direction. His prick was full and heavy against his belly. I took it gently in my hand and hooked my elbows over his thighs.

Watson's fingers moved tenderly through my hair, cradled my head, and came to rest behind my ears. I smiled up at him.

"Remember what I said."

"What's that?" he asked.

"John. I want to _hear_ you."

"Right." Watson cleared his throat again. "Well, there's nothing to go shouting about just yet."

"Cheeky," I muttered, and bent to kiss his belly. In my hand, his prick flexed in anticipation. The smell of him was heady, salty, and the first beads of moisture were welling from his tip. I nuzzled against him, rubbing my lips along his shaft, and put out my tongue to taste the wetness of his desire.

"Holmes," he whispered.

"Louder," I said, and licked him again.

"Ah, God," Watson said.

 _Close enough_ , I thought. I opened my mouth and took the head of his prick inside. He hissed and I reached up to pinch one of his nipples.

"Holmes!"

I pulled off to say, "Better," and bent to my task.

He stiffened to full erection quickly, hot and hard, stretching my jaw. I sucked him until he was squirming, working him with my hand that which I could not reach. His hands wandered: across my shoulders, up the back of my neck, through my hair. His hips shifted, restless, rising and falling as he tensed his buttocks, pushing deeper into my mouth. He was acquiescing to my demand, too, letting the moans slip out between parted lips. My head swam with desire. I needed more.

"Holmes," he said suddenly, catching me off guard. I started to pull off but he stopped me with a touch on the top of my head and I worked my tongue around the tip of his prick, raising an eyebrow at him in spite of the angle. "I wonder if you would—"

"Mm?" I asked, encouraging.

"I'd like your fingers, please," he said, all in a rush.

"Mm," I agreed, and slipped my free hand between his thighs. He sank down further on the settee and parted his legs, and my fingers delved into the crevasse between his buttocks. It was warm and humid and… already slick. I lifted my head in surprise, staring up at him, as my fingers met almost no resistance at the entrance to his body. " _John_ ," I breathed in astonishment.

Watson wouldn't meet my eyes, but he was rosy with smug embarrassment.

"Oh, you wicked man," I said, pressing two fingers deep. Watson moaned, spreading his thighs further for me. I bent once more to take his cock into my mouth and began to finger him slowly, gauging his preparedness. He'd— by Jove, he'd gone and readied himself for me. Sometime today, perhaps before Mrs Hudson had even left, he'd done this to himself in the hopes that I'd— come along and not have to do it myself.

I had one of his thighs trapped beneath my arm where I braced myself, but the other could be lifted and so lift it I did. I slid my shoulder beneath his knee and added a third finger to the invitingly tight heat of his body. My prick, neglected, trapped in my trousers, pulsed eagerly as I sucked Watson to the edge of his control. He whimpered, reaching out for the arm of the settee, and slid the other hand back into my hair.

"That's enough," he gasped, "I think that's— Holmes, that's plenty—"

"Good," I said, pulling away and pushing myself to my feet, ridding myself frantically of my trousers, "because you, Doctor, have earned yourself—"

I didn't finish the sentence, as I became at that moment occupied with scooping Watson up and shifting him bodily on the settee so that his head was on the arm and his hips were on the seat. His bad leg dangled, his foot braced on the floor, while the good one bent upwards and I put my shoulder back in the crook of his knee.

"Earned myself what?" Watson demanded, as I braced myself above him and lined up my prick. We groaned together as I sank inside.

"John," I moaned, smearing my cheek against his knee and adjusting my grip on the settee cushion just above his shoulder. He was gorgeous: blushing and perspiring and gazing up at me with his bright eyes. He was grinning too.

"Well?" he pressed. He ran his hands down my ribs and tugged my hips against his backside.

"I want to fuck you into the floor," I said.

"Ye-es," Watson said, tossing his head back, "do it, do it!"

"Are you going to shout for me?"

He laughed, breathless, and said, "Fuck me and we'll see!"

I obliged, drawing my hips back and slamming them back in, and it jolted another sharp moan free from his throat. Again, and again, and by the time I found my rhythm he was moaning and gasping and crying out, unashamed, uninhibited.

"I knew it," I gasped, slowing down to make my thrusts deep and purposeful, "I knew you'd sound good."

Watson grabbed me by the back of the neck and hauled me down to kiss me. He groaned into my mouth as I picked up the pace again. His heel skidded against my back as he flexed and pointed his foot. I tried to get a hand between us to help him out but I couldn't let go of the settee for fear of falling.

"Touch yourself," I demanded. "John, _please._ I'm— heavens, I'm close."

Watson beamed at me, panting, and took himself in hand. I was shoving him up against the corner of the settee, bending his shoulder at an awkward angle, but I wasn't going to be at it much longer. I watched his face contort with the pleasure as he began to stroke himself, his knuckles brushing against my stomach. 

"Say my name," I gasped.

"Sherlock," he said.

"Oh, John." I could feel it, starting in the pit of my hips, the base of my spine, swamping me with pleasure and threatening to overwhelm me. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stay it long enough that he could get there first. "Please."

"Sherlock!" he said again, louder. "There— there, love, now— oh God, oh, God!" 

I felt him go stiff, his back arching, and then he cried out as he spurted between us. I shouted and froze, trembling, as the first wave of my orgasm swept through me. With every successive pulse I rocked deeper into him, riding him through his own climax, while he shuddered and swore and groaned through his teeth.

I sagged, my elbows giving out, and I slipped out from under his knee to prop myself up on the arm of the settee, my face inches from his own. He opened his eyes slowly, eyelashes fluttering, and I kissed him before he was entirely ready. His clean hand came up to cup my cheek.

"Surely you can't expect me to make that kind of a ruckus when the week is out," he muttered.

"No," I sighed, biting gently at his lower lip and nuzzling his moustache, "so I need to get my fill while we can, don't you see?"

"Mm," he said.

"I look forward to the acoustic differences the washroom provides," said I.

"You were serious about that."

I pulled away to look down into his face. "Deadly," I said. "I've never been fucked in a bath."


End file.
